


The Emperor's New Clothes

by cruisedirector



Category: The King's Speech (2010)
Genre: Clothing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Sick Character, Speech Disorders, Speeches, Stuttering, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:36:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie's childhood stomach troubles flare up even after he's King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Emperor's New Clothes

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my Google Docs since 2012, so I figured I might as well post it. Unbetaed and probably in need of Britpicking, so feel free to send corrections.

Though he had no medical degree, Lionel knew from observation that people were most vulnerable in the spots where they felt the most tension. Athletes were always damaging the muscles that took the most strain, and what actors and singers did to their vocal chords often led to attacks of upper respiratory illness. The inability to speak that he'd witnessed in soldiers arose in equal parts from the seared tissues of their throats and the paralyzing fear they associated with the pain. 

When Lionel was ill, the pain usually started in his head and only later settled in his throat or lungs or belly. But when Bertie felt sick, the trouble invariably began in his stomach. The way he had been raised -- deprived of food as a punishment, force-fed by a nanny while being rocked in a pram -- no doubt had started the infirmity, and seasickness had made matters worse, contributing to an ulcer that had finally required surgery. Lionel had seen how nervous tension exacerbated things, so that Bertie would work himself into a state where nausea seemed almost inevitable. Sometimes Lionel could smile and rub his shoulders and calm him, but not always.

He was in such a state today, almost hysterical with terror at his inability to read the speech he would have to deliver on the wireless the next night. No amount of encouragement and soothing words seemed to make it easier. Lionel watched helplessly as Bertie gulped and hunched and clutched at his belly, until finally Bertie excused himself, trembling and humiliated, to shut himself in the loo.

To give Bertie his privacy, Lionel played music. Loudly. Because his pipes rattled, he could hear the toilet flush and the sink turn on, but nothing else. After ten minutes, he realized that should Bertie call for help, he might not be able to hear that, so he turned the music down. 

Another five minutes passed. Ten. Worry overrode manners. Lionel tapped on the door.

"Everything all right in there?"

The silence went on for so long that Lionel nearly flung open the door to the office and, heedless of protocol, raced out to find Bertie's driver. There were physicians on both sides in Harley Street, but when he chose to escape the confines of the Palace, the King preferred to come to Lionel's home, where the royal presence was far less conspicuous. If Bertie was seriously ill...

"I n-need..." 

Silence again. "Let me help you." Still no reply. "Would you like me to bring you a glass of water? Or a cup of tea?" Lionel could smell Bertie's sickness through the door, a miasma of vomit and fumes. Working with soldiers in hospitals had taught him to ignore the unpleasantness. He imagined that Bertie was accustomed to an entire staff who dealt with his sweaty clothes and soiled handkerchiefs, but Lionel wasn't staff, and, in this place, not merely subject. "Bertie. I'm concerned about you. Open the door."

"I need a w-wash. And --" The click of the jaw locking, several seconds of helpless stammer. Lionel reminded himself that Bertie wasn't seriously ill, that rushing him would only make matters worse. "And a n-n-n-new shirt."

Lionel's shirts were, of course, not made by the same fine tailors who made Bertie's shirts, and would be too big in the collar for Bertie, but if he gave Bertie his finest shirt, he thought it would pass muster, since Bertie would have his coat on when he left. "I'll bring you one. Leave the one you're wearing on the sink, I'll have it cleaned."

"Lionel." The utterance was nearly a choked-off sob, breathless with humiliation. Even now Bertie rarely addressed him by his given name, preferring to call him _Logue_. 

Lionel had a flash of memory, one of his sons locked in a bedroom refusing to come out for breakfast, the sound of a window being prised open, the flutter of a wet sheet flung to the ground outside as if it might disappear before the family would see. "I don't suppose my shirt will match your fine trousers," he added quickly. "I'll tell you what, I'll bring you a pile of clothing and you can figure out what will fit you. Do you know how to work the drain stop? I'm afraid the hot water may not be as hot as you're accustomed..."

"Lionel," said Bertie again, cutting off the flow of words. Lionel wasn't certain whether it meant _be quiet_ or _thank you_.

"And I'll bring towels," he added, when Bertie didn't add anything further. After several more moments without speech, during which time he could hear Bertie moving around, apparently able to fend for himself, he went to fetch nearly everything in his wardrobe. The absurdly expensive silk underwear that Myrtle had bought for Lionel to wear to the coronation, which he had deemed too extravagant and had never put on lest he should manage to dribble on the fancy button front, would probably be too large around for Bertie but he put it in the pile as well.

He could hear water running when he returned, carrying a huge stack of clothing, towels on top. Did Bertie have servants to dry him off, or did he perform that part of his ablutions himself? It was one of many things about Bertie's life that would remain shrouded in mystery to Lionel. Carefully he turned the knob, making certain not to shove the door open. Bertie hadn't locked it, so he released the knob and knocked again. "May I open this just a bit to put the towels inside?"

"Yes, thank you." No stammer, and Lionel could hear the relief in Bertie's voice. He thrust both hands through the space to leave the clothes, taking in only a blurred impression of the King in his bathtub before he quickly withdrew and went to make some tea.

Eventually Bertie emerged, looking almost comically disheveled in Lionel's ill-fitting clothes, but there was color in his face and his hands, when Lionel took them to guide him to the couch, were warm. "Let me get you some tea."

"No, thank you," Bertie said automatically, though he took the cup when Lionel put it in his hands and took a cautious sip. If Bertie had been any other friend, Lionel would have brought him the Indian dressing robe that a patient had given him as a gift one Christmas, and slippers, and insisted that he rest in bed for a few hours.

But this was the King of England, even if he looked at the moment not much older than Lionel's eldest son, and considerably less robust. Lionel went to fetch a wet cloth and, since Bertie did not resist, placed it on his forehead. "Feeling better?" Lionel asked him.

"It's worse than the st-stammer. One day I fear I shall open my m-mouth to speak and b-be violently sick on my audience instead."

It took a moment for Lionel to realize that Bertie was joking. Not until Bertie's mouth curved in a smile did he allow himself to laugh. "Tomorrow it's only the microphone, and Mr. Wood will blame the equipment if necessary."

"Bloody microphone." Setting down the cup, Bertie sat back, a grimace returning to his face. "Bloody awful speech."

"You were doing very well with it before your stomach got in the way."

"Liar." But there was no malice in the word. "I've left my clothes and your towels in a wad on the floor. Please promise me you'll have someone burn them. I'll have a new set sent over straightaway."

"Monogrammed, I hope," Lionel replied straightfaced before he allowed his lips to quirk. Certainly he wouldn't do anything so wasteful as to burn them -- Myrtle would be able to get them clean -- but he would hide the King's clothes away where no one would ever wonder how they had come to be in his possession.

Bertie shook his head, though he was smiling. When he shivered, Lionel sat closer than protocol allowed, arm pressed against Bertie's, sharing body heat. "I suppose now you're going to tell me how splendid I look in your clothes."

It required no acting on Lionel's part to return the smile when he looked at the King, sitting rumpled in his clothes on the sofa. Bertie trusted Lionel to lie only when Bertie truly needed it. With a heartfelt nod, Lionel told him, "You always look splendid."


End file.
